light goes out (days of winter)
by TenTenD
Summary: Times have changed and with them so do people. The realm is only as strong as its ruler. But how does one measure that strength in the face of that which cannot be explained? Winter has come and its mourning veils envelop all. Sequel to 'seal thy fate (the piece is moved)'.
1. i

Aegon is so glad they are back in Dorne. The sun is shining and the birds are singing and everything is right in the world. Except his sister. There is always something wrong with Rhaenys these days. Aegon shakes his head when she levels a hard stare his way and sticks his tongue out at her.

"You are not helping my mood," she hisses at him, throwing one of the pillows at his head. She misses, of course, and the pillow hits Tyta's leg.

"Children, please, behave," their new mother says, cradling her own progeny. "You'll wake Alix and then no one's mood will be spared. I understand you are feeling a little sick, Rhaenys, but perhaps you could try sleeping it off."

Rhaenys merely breathes out heavily, her nostrils flaring. Sometimes, Aegon thinks she resents mother, their true, natural one, for leaving. Of course, even gentle Tyta cannot replace mother. But she is a good woman, juts like Elia had been a good woman, and she cares for them. What more could a child possibly ask for? Aegon leaves Rhaenys' side for Tyta's and slides in next to her. Alix gurgles and it almost sounds like speech. How very interesting.

"Why does he sleep so much?" Alix asks when his brother closes his eyes again. After a short cursory glace towards whatever faces were in his field of vision, the youngest Dayne saw fit to give a bored yawn and then proceed to nap. "That's all he's been doing." Somehow, having a brother had sounded more exciting than actually having a brother is.

"He is yet a babe," Tyta explains patiently. "Alix tires easily because he has so much to take it every day. Unlike you and I, he is just starting to learn. It will be some time before he can walk and run around."

"Can I hold him?" Aegon requests. Since Alix is too small to play, then he can nap in his brother's arms. "I promise to be very careful. I'm his older brother, after all, I'll always protect him. He must learn to trust me."

"Well said," Tyta laughs. She does hand him the babe, placing the child carefully in the cradle of his arms. Aegon looks down at the tiny face. When father first allowed them to see Alix, the boy's skin had been so red that Aegon had to wonder if the sun burned him. But now he looks normal.

There are times when even Rhaenys can be induced to hold him, though his sister does not seem inclined towards motherly manifestations. She's as likely to hiss and spit nails as she is to be gentle and loving in her current state, so instead of even trying to make conversation with her, Aegon concentrates on the babe once more.

"Mother, are there going to be other brothers and sisters?" he questions at a long last. This had been bothering him ever since he'd learned that Alix had had a sister, a twin. Mother doesn't speak about it, of course, but father says that she'd been named Deydra.

"Aegon!" Rhaenys admonishes. "You are the most insensitive little–"

"It is fine, Rhaenys. There is no need to be upset with your brother." Tyta smiles down at him and Aegon feels his cheeks go red. He should have thought better of it. But he had opened his mouth and he cannot take back his words. "If the gods are good, then there will be more. But if there are not more, then I am content knowing that I have the three of you. Does that satisfy?"

They stop at an inn for food and drink. Rhaenys is the first one out of the wheelhouse. She rushes inside like the hounds of hell are chasing her. Aegon is less impatient. He waits for father to help mother out and even aid by carrying a small satchel.

The food is good and the clear water even better. Aegon wolfs down his soup and almost chokes on the mutton, but Rhaenys is just as bad. One would think she hasn't seen a decent meal in too many years to count. If anyone thinks it strange, they do not bother to say so. And why would they?

Satisfied with his full stomach, Aegon looks around for some children he may spend time with. It is clear that neither one of his parents is in any hurry to take to the road and Rhaenys keeps asking them to allow her to retreat to a room. He can see his father handing her silver stags to pay the innkeeper and that is his signal.

"I am going outside," he tells his mother. Tyta nods at him and returns to her conversation, but not before telling him not to wander too far, for they might be on their way at any given moment.

A few children are standing near the small brook, playing with a ball of rags. Aegon looks back towards the inn. This is not too far away, he thinks. When the rest of his family comes out, they'll see him well enough and he will see them.

If in the other kingdoms relationships between people are strictly directed by the natural order of things, Dorne is more lax in these matters. So a lordling at play with the children of peasants or even with bastards will not be given much attention. Aegon is pleased with that. It gives one freedom.

The oldest of the children is also the leader of the small gang. Apparently they were just searching for another member. "The game doesn't work unless we are seven," another child explains. Aegon thinks it might be a she, but one can hardly tell.

"Is there anything I need to know?" Aegon asks. "Rules?"

"There is only one rule. Run fast and don't stop." They all grin. Aegon decides to go along with it. After all, a spot of fun had never been the cause of much grief, he is sure.

"Now, here is what we do," one of them stated saying, "we pick up some of these small stones ands then we go hiding in the bushes." He points towards the bushes. "And when you see a rider passing by you make your throw. The one who hits most wins."

Said and done. Aegon watches as a man rides by and the leader throws a rock. It hits the man on the head. A head turns around.

A scream fills the air. Terror makes his blood pump and Aegon takes to his feet, running from the creature with half a ruined face.

Thanfully, a man cannot chase seven children at the same time and Aegon is not the one the man sets his sight on. "Merciful Mother." Aegon gulps in air as he makes it into the inn, just in the nick of time too.

"Aegon, what's wrong?" Tyta questions when she finally sees him. "Come on here."


	2. ii

There is much to be said about a man who can control his rage in the most trying of situations. There is, alike, much to be said about a man who will not blame others for his problems. Viserys looks to Rhaegar as a man who can do both. So it comes as a surprise to see that his brother is still very much aghast ay Daenerys. The situation itself is difficult, yet 'tis not hopeless.

"Your Majesty, forgive me if I overstep my bounds, but Her Grace has done nothing shameless. 'Tis natural for a woman to give life," Arianne says, hands resting protectively over the proof of her own fertility. "I do not see why she should be punished at all. There are no lasting effects to be seen. More than that, she had contributed to the miracle."

His wife is speaking of the dragon that has seemingly bonded with Princess Alysanne. Alas, not even this great joy can wash away the folly. Viserys leans against the wall and continues to stare at his brother. The Queen is silent too. She sits by the window, her gaze unfocused. Viserys is not sure what has happened between the two of them, but the strains is a living, breathing thing, separating two people who he's so used to seeing together.

"My sister acted in a careless manner. But, surely, that needs not be her doom. Brother, she is young." Youth is not an excuse, but it is an explanations. Or as much as Daenerys is willing to give through her actions.

"And in love," Arianne adds. "Your Majesty understands that well, I think. Why should love be punished?" For once, Viserys is in full agreement with his wife. They do not see eye to eye on many matters, but her willingness to protect his sister is moving.

"I am not trying to punish love," Rhaegar cuts Arianne off just as she is about to speak again. "Had I wanted to punish her, you can be sure it would not have been with confining her to her rooms. Had she come to me, had she trusted me …" he trails off. He looks towards his own wife, but Lyanna is still looking out the window, deep in thought.

"You would have allowed her to wed him?" Viserys drags his weight away from the wall and steps forth.

House Targaryen is already tied to House Stark. So close a renewal of connection might upset the other lords of the Seven Kingdoms. Viserys knows this is what is brother is thinking, this is what he has been considering, this is what eats at him. What to do?

Rhaegar seems unwilling to answer the question, so Viserys allows the matter to drop. "What if she were to wed him now? It is not too late."

"But it is," Rhaegar contradicts. "It is much too late. Someone has been talking." That is worrisome indeed. It is said that Rhaenyra Targaryen had her lover's bastards instead of her husband's children, but still she had a husband nonetheless to serve as father. Daenerys is unwed, certainly bedded and the mother of a bastard. "This is not something I am able to control any longer."

"But if Your Majesty were to refute their claims and punish the perpetrators, the Princess would be safe." Arianna walks closer to his brother, placing her hands cautiously on his arm. "Who would dare go against the King?"

"You are right." The apparent approval produces a smile of Arianne's face, but Viserys can already hear in Rhaegar's voice the underlying harshness. "I could cut out some tongues and order my courtiers to keep their silence in my presence. But for how long will that stop them? Do not doubt for one single moment that when you or I or anyone close to us is out of earshot they shall return to bandying and debating."

"Using force will only prove their point." The Queen's intervention stuns them into silence. Lyanna is standing up, her eyes no longer vacant. "I keep wondering how I could have missed it. Young people in love are so very easy to spot. And if we have missed this, what else is there that we have not seen?" Her lips press in a thin line and her expression is the epitome of dejection. Viserys wishes he could offer her some comfort.

"Then what are we to do?" asks Arianne after a short pause. "What will my good-sister do?"

"She will be her own judge." It is not so much the words as the tone that strikes them all in that moment. To be one own's judge is a dangerous thing. "What could be fairer than that? Daenerys may judge her actions however she deems fit. Let her decide whether she wished to continue among us, or else find a place elsewhere." Rhaegar sighs and he looks ten years older in Viserys eyes in this moment. "I shall endorse whichever decision she puts forth before me."

There will be no happiness for Daenerys in this, Viserys thinks. If she does choose to chase Robb Stark she will have created difficulties in her brother's reign. If she weds another man, she may find herself held constantly in debt by the lordling. Besides those, she may choose to devote herself to the gods. Neither option is particularly appealing.

"I shall talk to her. It is best so," Lyanna says. She eyes her husband for a few short moments, as if trying to determine something. Viserys wonders if this is some sort of reconciliation. If it is, 'tis a strange one. "If I may, Your Majesty." How strange those words sound in such an intimate space as his brother's solar.

Unless other lords and ladies are present, Lyanna does not call his brother by his title. He is Rhaegar to her, or simply husband. All warmth is buried underneath the weigh of consciousness when one calls someone beloved by their title.

"Leave us," his brother orders, not giving Lyanna any answer.

Viserys, knowing well enough that the conversation which will follow is meant for only two pairs of ears, takes Arianne gently by the hand and ushers her out. As the doors close behind them, he swears he can hear sobs and words of comfort mingling together.

"His interference may cost your sister her happiness," Arianne speaks. "How can he be so cold? How can you stand for it?"

"Her happiness may cost us allies. A realm does not run of happiness," Viserys points out. "There are times when he has to be the king before he can be the brother. Think you he does not wish her happy?" Yet, there are such times, when the brother is helpless before the king.

"I do not know what I think." Her answer tells him nothing. Viserys nods his head nonetheless and leads her away. "I hope that our child will have you as a father first and foremost and as a prince of the realm only after." Again, she strokes her growing middle.


	3. iii

The babe twists and turns, small croaks leaving its gaping mouth. Alysanna holds up another piece of charred meat. "Is it good?" she asks the winged creature as it devours the food, swallowing in large gulps. She half fears the dragon might choke on it.

"Have you named it yet?" Aeron asks, clearly impatient. "My niece needs a name, you know." Since the egg had hatched in Alysanna's arms, her brothers have decided that she is the mother of this dragon and thus, the dragon itself is their niece.

"It might still turn out to be a nephew," she corrects her brother nonetheless. "Dragons are not bound to one gender like us." Or do think some maesters. Alysanna holds the dragon up and looks down. "What should I call you?" The dragon, being a dragon, gives no reply. Alysanna sighs.

"You are over thinking the matter," Rhaegon says. "You need but familiarise yourself with the dragon and a name will come. As for you, my dear brother," Rhaegon speaks, turning his sightless gaze upon Aeron, "I thought you were in the middle of packing."

"That I was," comes the reply, "but Alysanna came with my niece," he pauses to glance at his sister, "and I was distracted." Which is no lie. As soon as Alysanna stepped in the room, he had promptly dropped whatever he'd been doing and joined her, staring in wonder at the small beast that settled itself in her lap. "I wonder when fire will begin pouring out its mouth."

Targaryen they might be, all three of then, but when it comes to raising dragons, they are no more knowledgeable than anyone else in Westeros. Thankfully, old lore has a tendency to thrive in stories. So every now and then, the songs they read teach them something valuable. For example, Alysanna has found out that scratching at the dragon's neck bring the creature much pleasure, enough to have it curl in her lap and fall sleep.

"I am sure that is a long way off," she responds to Aeron's earlier question. "It's so small right now. I doubt it could produce a flame even if it wanted."

"I would not underestimate its power," Rhaegon says after a long moment of silence. "But perhaps it needs some sort of catalyst. A situation that would require the use of its strengths."

Alysanna rolls her eyes. "Let it be for now." She clutches the babe to her chest, mindful of its thin limbs. "I had a dream last night."

"So did I," Aeron cuts her off. "I dreamt the whole keep was made of lemon cakes and raspberry tarts. We had to eat our way out of it. It was delicious."

Punching his arms, Alysanna chides him with a stare. "My dream does not involve food, brother mine, but it is a strange thing nonetheless. I was in my room, in the dark, but even so my eyes worked perfectly well – as if it were day outside. I was on the bed, just sitting there. I craned my neck, waiting for something to happen, when a glimmer caught my eyes. So I turned around and I saw," here she stops, her eyes trained on the dragon which has jumped onto the ground and is sniffing the wood.

"Well, what did you see?" Aeron prods.

"What do you think I saw?" Alysanna returns with a small smile.

"I wouldn't know. It was your dream, stupid." Aeron sticks his tongue out at her and yelps when Alysanna pinches his arm. He draws back, but the mark will still be on his flesh hours from now. Aeron scowls at her.

"I saw myself." Both her brothers look confused at that. Alysanna shakes her head."I lifted my hand – I don't know why. But instead of five fingers, I had three clawed digits at the end of a limb which had a wing attached to it. And that was when I realised that I had somehow entered the dragon's body. I was the dragon. I am the dragon."

"So you are saying that you have the same sort of dreams as Rhaegon here?" Aeron purses his lips and looks between the two of them. "Why is it that you have all the fun?"

"Fun?" Rhaegon snorts. "Aye, fun indeed. Aeron, if I could, I would give you this ability." Rhaegon has mostly nightmares when he enters the bodies of beasts. He finds it rather offensive that his brother would make light of it.

A loud scratching sound breaks their conversation, cutting through the tension like a knife. Aeron heaves a great sigh and walked to the door, carefully stepping over the reptile on the ground. The door opens with a screech and in saunters Ghost. All three siblings freeze when red eyes land on the small winged creature. Ghost stands a veritable giant before the hatchling.

But the dragon seems to know no fear. It walks towards the new guest, sniffing and puffing, its small legs falling rapidly against the wooden floor. Ghost merely stands there, head bowed, nose thrust forward. They all hold their breath when the two are nose to nose, waiting for something. For anything. The direwolf and the dragon face one another, calm, very much at ease.

"If I grab the dragon now, maybe one of you can get Ghost," Alysanna whispers, stunned and unsure. "We have to do something."

It was Rhaegon who shakes his head and smiles, putting them all at ease. "Nay, 'tis well that they meet thus. They must know they are of the same family. They are the same"

Alysanna looks at her brother with distinct confusion upon her face. "How can they be the same, Rhaegon? One's a wolf, the other a dragon."

"In that they are tied to us." For once in his life Aegon has said something completely pertinent to the situation. Alysanna is pleasantly surprised and gives her brother a small nod of recognition. "I cannot wait until we find more eggs. I want one too."

"So you've said before," Rhaegon replies dryly. "It's almost all I've been hearing from him, Alysanna, I swear. If he's not talking about squiring for Lord Baratheon, then he's speaking about finding dragon eggs and hatching one."

They laugh good-naturedly. Of course Alysanna knows that both her brother want dragons. She can understand that perfectly. "I am certain there will be more eggs. We just have to find them. At least now we know where not to look."

"Ghost!" comes the voice of their oldest brother through the door. "Ghost, where are you?" Ghost breaks his contact with the small dragon and turns his head towards the door which is thrust open. Jon stands in the doorway, a look of wonder on his face. "Gods be good. It's larger than it was yesterday." He stares at the hatchling.

"It's not," Alysanna assures her brother. "Not even dragons grow that fast."

"I swear it is larger, Alysanna." They all look at the dragon. Alysanna shakes her head, but Aeron suspicious gaze lingers.


	4. iv

Taverns are generally assumed to be places where one may find the desired wine or ale and where peace is not found in abundance. Still, there are moments when the patrons will not insist upon making a racket. This is not one such occasion, unfortunately. Desmond Redfyre curls his lips in disgust and perhaps a smidge of amusement at the sight of a drunkard folding one of the serving wenches.

"The company you keep is somewhat disappointing," he addresses the other man at the table. "Mayhap a change of scenery is in order." Neither moves however. They sit in complete silence as one of the women comes by to refill their glasses. "Oberyn, drinking won't bring her back. Trust me on this, I've tried." He held his cup up, nonetheless, and took a hearty gulp of the Dornish vintage. "Piss water, this one."

"It's adequate enough," Oberyn offers in reply. "Why in the seven hells have you decided to plague me with your presence?" For someone who has been drinking the whole time, his friend is awfully coherent. "Do you not have some oddities to care for?"

Desmond shrugs. "I suspect my companions would much protest at being called oddities. Challenging them may prove unwise." He looks for a brief moment at the ebony skinned boy who is glaring daggers at the Dornish Prince. Desmond cannot help but be amused. Then his eyes travel to the woman drinking plain water. Unlike the boy, she seems to be doing a fine job of ignoring the Prince. "Bhendys," he calls her attention, "what do you think of my friend here?"

Levelling Oberyn a dispassionate stare, the woman shrugs small shoulder as if she cannot quite form an opinion of him based on the five words they've spoken in the presence of one another. She finishes her water and slams the cup down. Without a word, she climbs to her feet and leaves the three of them there.

With a single nod of his head, Desmond sends the boy after her. Oberyn watches the scene unfold with curious eyes. "Savage little thing," he comments with ease and her appreciative stare. "But I dare say she does not hold a candle to our women." The unvoiced question lingers between them for a few moments. Neither seems willing to let it go. Oberyn looks ready to demand his answers in the face of his friend's hesitancy when Desmond finally speaks.

"My feelings remain unchanged, Oberyn." He stands up. And then he speaks of the matter at hand. "I mourned your sister." Not half as much he's done Elena, but Oberyn doesn't need to know of it. "Her absence is a loss for us all. But she is dead. And we are alive. However much you wish to change that, it is out of your hands."

"He took another bride, you know." Oberyn puts his own cup down and seems ready to stand up. "No time wasted. He even gave her a whelp."

"Women breed," Desmond points out, his calm manner a foil to his friend's less than charitable words. "A man should not burry himself along with his losses." He would know as much. "Is it not enough that he loved her while she yet lived?"

Certainly, Arthur Dayne's decision to wed again rather soon after his wife's death came as a surprise. But Desmond finds that he cannot blame the man. After all, it seemed to be a matter of honour as well as a demand from the crowned heads of Westeros. Oberyn will just have to learn that the world does not revolve around House Martell and its problems. Won't that be a worthy lesson?

They make their way out of the tavern to where the horses have been stabled. Bhendys actually offers to help him shoulder Oberyn's weight. Desmond refuses her, of course. Fierce as the little priestess is, she'll likely slit the Prince's throat for his behaviour. Once Oberyn is convinced to enter the wheelhouse, for he cannot possibly ride in his state, coherent or not, they are more or less prepared to leave.

"You do not like him," Desmond speaks to the woman, driving his bay closer to hers. "You have judged him so very quickly."

"I have judged him fairly," she replies in kind. Her frown deepens. "It is not for me, however, to say anything more."

"It is not," he agrees. There is something likable about the priestess, even with her hurried judgement of people – which is for the most part fairly accurate – and tendency to frown. "What do you think of Westeros, my lady?"

He's asked her this very question a few times until now. Her answer remains unchanged. Desmond already anticipates it. "I think that I have hardly seen enough of it," Bhendys answers, a small smile on her face. "Where do we go from here?"

"To King's Landing." He spends a few precious moments explaining to her what she can expect of the place. "It is necessary however." For more than just business, to be sure. The look on Bhendys' face tells him she knows it as well.

"I offer no warnings, my lord," she says, looking away from him. "But remember this, violent desires breed violent ends."

She trust him, but not very much, at least not where matters of the heart are concerned. Desmond supposes she may be onto something. Despite her young age, Bhendys is no fool. "And would it make you sad, if I were to meet with a violent end?"

Dark eyes turns to him. "It would make me famished, I believe." She delivers the line with a straight face and a hard voice. Somehow, though, Desmond knows not to take offence.

"Ah, so that's why you are so very protective." Bhendys gives him a light grin, but shakes her head as if he's quite missed the point. "Is that all that I am to you, wench, a walking purse?"

"Nay, my lord." Desmond looks at her expectantly, but she fails to expand on the thought. A strange creature, the priestess. Whatever she meant by it, Desmond is given to understand that she will not explain. He leaves her be. Bhendys has her moments.

Instead of thinking about any of his companions, his thoughts travel to that day when he finally learned about Arianne's fate. He wonders in the princess is happy. She deserves happiness. Little Arianne, a woman grown and wed; he smiles at the thought. It seems that only a day past she was a girl playing in the Water Gardens. But how very far those times are. As far even as that promise of marriage that had tied him to House Martell so many years ago.

Desmond takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the dry air of his beloved Dorne. He must leave these familiar places behind, once more. Duty calls. Desire too. And he shall not be the one to deny them.

In a mood that may only be counted as positive, he starts whistling a tune. Desmond is well pleased with the day's accomplishments.


	5. v

Margaery looks down at her hands, fingers twisting spasmodically. The last period has been somewhat of a nightmare. Jon sits quietly next to her, staring straight ahead. He hasn't moved for quite some time and she is starting to worry.

Tyrion had grown equally quiet, and he of all people should be the least quiet. Margaery had been hoping he Lord Lannister's son would be able to obtain at least a smile from Jon, so she'd gone and convinced him to come with her. Only Jon is not responding quite like she imaged he would. It must be the whole debacle with Princess Daenerys that has his so ill disposed.

"At least, Your Grace," she cuts into his brooding, "we should make sure that she is fine." Her suggestion is met with a thin smile from the Prince and a rather mean-spirited look from the dwarf. Margaery bristles, but she is not about to give up. "Why should she be alone?"

"Because she needs time to contemplate," Tyrion answers with something like contempt. Margaery gives him a stony glance. He smiles, revealing his teeth. "My lady, being yourself a woman, you must understand better than us the necessity of this isolation."

"Must I?" she countered, softly, steely. "It seems to me, my lord, that a young woman has just suffered a great loss. What are we doing here, instead of comforting her?" This is something she cannot quite understand. The Princess has done wrong, very wrong indeed, but at least in a private manner, perhaps she might be offered comfort. Why Jon, who is a warm, caring person, refuses to do so, she cannot fathom. "Your Grace," she finally bursts, unable to hold back any longer.

"If I go," Jon begins, his eyes staring straight at her – but he seems to be looking through her rather than at her, "If I go." There is something lost about him, as if he has a secret of his own that eats away at him.

It began when he saw the child his aunt had birthed. Margaery, of course, had heard whispers, but she'd ignored it all and looked only for the opinion of Jon. It was truly strange that she had come to care so deeply for his words, for his very person. And for some time she was sure that he too was starting to care. But now she cannot say. He has closed himself off, he avoids her.

"I think that I am one wheel too many here," Tyrion excuses himself. Margaery watches him go but doesn't try to stop him. Instead she returns her gaze to Jon and they both jump as the door closes with a thud.

"Why won't you go?" she demands. It is uncharacteristic of her, but she finds that her usual softness won't work this time. Something has to be done. "Tell me that much at least." The heaviness of the room pushes down upon her shoulders. Still, Margaery resists the urge to flee in the face of this difficulty. Some things have to be learned. She won't always be able to rely on her grandmother's words of wisdom.

With a startling push the Prince is up, no longer seating. "I am so angry at him. He shouldn't have done this to her." He is speaking about his cousin, Robb Stark. Margaery doesn't know what to say. But Jon doesn't need her to say anything at the moment. "Yet that's not what angers me most of all. I keep thinking about it over and over again and I cannot help but wonder, have I done the same mistake?"

The same mistake? Margaery doesn't understand. She too stands to her feet and walks closer to him. But then, a thought comes to her mind. Her eyes mist over and she cannot help but remember Rhaenys Dayne. She shudders and halts midstride. The words crowd on her tongue but die on her lips.

"It doesn't matter," Margaery says after a short, heavy pause. Jon turns to look at her, but this time his eyes meet hers and hold. Her throat is suddenly dry. Margaery continues anyway. "Aye, it doesn't matter, whatever the case. Unless you–" her speech cuts off.

If he loves Rhaenys then all might be lost. She should ask. But she can't. Margaery's small hands ball into fists and her fingers actually hurt from how hard she is squeezing. If only she can get her mouth to open. It shouldn't be this difficult. But the answer scares her; it stirs an ugly emotion in her breast. And for the life of her, Margaery can't make up her mind if she should as him or not. Her eyes plead for understanding and Jon's gaze reflects that, or maybe she reflects what she sees in his eyes.

"Unless I," he prompts but doesn't push for an answer from her. As if woken from a dream, his eyes grow wide and he looks around with wonder. Margaery juts her chin forward when his eyes land on her and waits for him to speak, to give her a sign. "We should ask for an audience with the King."

"What for?" she questions. A glimmer of hope stands alongside a streak of desperation. Caught between these two contrary extremities, the young woman feels rather like she might break in two, tear from within and make a mess of everything.

"We must speak to him. It is better to announce the betrothal as soon as possible." He takes her hand, pressing his thumb against the back of it. Margaery allows her fingers to uncurl and waits for his hold to become secure. There is something worrisome about the quick manner in which he decides on his choice. Mayhap her face shows too much of her emotions, because Jon lets go in the next moment.

"You should consider this carefully," she advises. She should not have done it. But Margaery cannot bring herself to take away his choice. If he wants her, then he'll have to choose her on his own, not because it is easy. "Excuse me, Your Grace."

And she leaves him there. Margaery runs down the hall, heading towards her own chamber. Bitter tears prick her eyes and they run down her cheeks before she can even close the door behind her. But by this point she is safe. Margaery leans against the door, breathing hard and trying to calm herself down.

What has she done? The Seven had given her a perfect opportunity. And she has squandered it. As if in a daze, she stumbles deeper into the room, walking towards the small table near the wall. Margaery falls into the nearest chair. Her hand wipes away blindly at the tears. It is best to wait for her emotions to settle before leaving the room.

With a deep sigh, the young woman tries to make sense of what has happened. If she cannot even explain it to herself, then how will she speak of it to her own parents? For if the Prince chooses someone else, she will have to.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I don't know, guys, my brain was like "let's give up." Basically, I'm not at my best and I'm seriously considering taking a long, long, long break from all of this._


	6. vi

Disgust makes his skin crawl as one of the young women bares her breast to feed the abomination she hold in her arms. Beric bites his lips until thy bleed. A younger girl, much to young to wed from the looks of her, though one can't be sure as most of these women are small and skinny, brings with her a horn of ale. The knight accepts the offer begrudgingly.

Craster is fondling one his daughter. For the life of him, Beric is unable to think of her as a wife to the man. She is his flesh and blood. And he spits on the work of the gods, both old and new, with such behaviour. The poor girl is trembling.

"Best not to look too closely," Edd advises, breaking a chunk of the brown little roll of bread and dipping it in the thin onion broth Craster has been so kind to provide. "He doesn't like it particularly much." The man chews on his bread, fighting to mince the hard thing between his teeth.

"I should like to put him at ease," Beric speaks in low tones, wincing when his injured arm knocks against the table. "An axe to the head should ease his worries."

"I'm sure the birds won't protest too much at that. You'll have provided them with something to last them at least for one good meal. That is until some other bastard finds his way in the flock of hens." There is something morbidly amusing about the man, Beric thinks. "This is not one of your fancy keeps. Best to leave it as it is."

"There is nothing to be done for them?" The question comes out as an indignant hiss. "Surely we could take them back. Find something for them in the village."

An ugly sneer decorates Eddison Tollett at this point. "I suppose we could do with some new wenches. Those other, all dried up the lot of them." He snorts and takes a gulp of his won drink. "That is, if they survive. I knew a wench once, striking woman," Edd begins his story.

One thing that Beric has found out is that Edd is full of such stories. With a sigh, he looked away from Craster and the poor tortured creature sitting with him. "She swore up and down that she was afraid of nothing and no one. So one day the wildlings attacked her village. She managed to stop one or two from . But of course she was no match for them in the end." Here he stops to drink again. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Edd looks at one of the girl that has climbed up in the hayloft. "We found her with her neck broken. Clean break, left her a bit pale, but still pretty as a picture. Watt was happy enough to have her as she was. Lucky woman, that one."

At Beric's look of horror, Edd shrugs his shoulder and returns to his broth. "Why in the Seven hells would you say that?" He is quite sure that if he sees Watt, the man will find himself a head shorter.

"Well, think on it, young knight," Edd offers sagely, "fine a woman as she was, Watt is no maiden's dream. This way won't have to live with having fucked him. The same can't be said for the whores in the village."

Pushing himself to his feet, Beric gives a disgruntled groan before making to where Benjen Stark has been laid down. He looks upon the man, thinking that the fever might have broken in the meantime. However, he finds the Stark much the same. Beads of sweat wash his forehead and his lips are slightly parted.

Beric signals one of Craster's older wives over and tells her to feed the man. He holds Benjen up, so the woman can spoon some broth in his mouth. If she is at all insulted by his request, she doesn't show it. But after a few moments Craster calls her away. A young girl, small and slender kneels before them and continues the work of the other woman.

Her brown eyes rise to his face, but can't hold his stare. There is something childlike about her features. She can't be more than five-and-ten, he reckons. His pride is bruised once again by his lack of power in this. Beric turns a hateful eye towards old Craster. Hus stomach churns at the thought of this man pawing at such a tiny thing as the girl before him.

Glancing back at the nameless wildling child, he can see that her hands are trembling. "Do not be afraid," he says in the kindest manner possible. She looks up, doe-eyed and shy. Her face glows with a healthy flush. His lips purse when he notices that her trembling hasn't stopped.

Having fed them as well as he might, Craster, quite tired of their company and equally drunk, if of a mind that they should leave, or if they don't want to, then it would suit them well to sleep and leave his wives alone. Unfortunately Craster must be satisfied. He is, after all, their host.

Pulling a tattered skin over himself, Beric settles somewhere in the proximity of Benjen Stark. But his noble intention of going to sleep is all but shattered by the pained sounds coming from the hayloft in which Craster has climbed. Anger rolls through the knight. He should be able to protect the helpless, not turn a blind eye to their suffering.

There is nothing to be done. Beric pulls the skin tighter around him and closes his eyes, trying to picture the face of Allyria Dayne, a source of comfort with her sweet smiles and deep violet eyes. But his peace doesn't last. His betrothed's face twists in pain, echoing the sound of distress whichever one of Craster's daughter is making up in the loft. If it were Allyria or some noble lady, her pain couldn't be ignored. But since this is just a wildling woman, Beric must gnash his teeth and close himself off to it.

With a curse he turns on his side and spits on the ground. Something bitter crawls up his throat. The knight gives another curse but doesn't move. His hand pains him again. In the semidarkness it is hard to see, but Beric think that the linens are soaked with blood again. He must have pulled the skin again. Closing his eyes, he preys the gods this nightmare will be over soon. They should reach Castle Black soon enough if no other ill befalls them on their way.

If asked, Beric would be unable to say when he fell asleep. However, the night afforded him a slumber filled with terrors such as he had never witnessed before. In truth, there is not much rest for him. But when he wakes in the morning, for better or worse, the ache in his arm has subsided.

Dolorous Edd stands above him, a dry look on his face. "Time you woke up," he mutters, though without bite. "Even Stark was quicker."


	7. vii

Arya sighs for the hundredth time as Septa Mordane chides her for uneven stitches and tearing the hem of her skirts again. She grimaces, thin lips drawing downwards. In this moment she is desperate enough to wish for even Sansa. But, unfortunately, Sansa has been locked in their father's solar with mother, discussing some nonsense about a maiden's cloak and new gown for court.

Mother is determined that Sansa should wed as soon as possible. For what reason, Arya can't tell. Part of her is happy at the prospect. She will not have to endure Sansa's annoying habit of waxing poetics about Willas any longer, nor will she be forced in her and Jeyne's company. It will be nice to have a bedchamber all to herself.

On the other hand, a sense of loneliness is slowly creeping upon her. These past few weeks, Sansa has been slowly drifting away. Not that grandfather's illness is helping any. In fact, the worse he becomes, the more seriously their parents contemplate sending both of them away. Arya doesn't know where they want to send her. But she hopes that wherever it is, she'll be allowed to continue her swordplay lessons.

If at first her mother was not at all pleased with father's decision to allow her a sword master, even she had come to terms with the issue, so long as Arya can compromise too and dedicate a few hours a day to ladylike pursuits. Her begrudging agreement she'd eagerly accepted.

"Arya, child," the Septa raises her voice, scandalised by whatever mistake she's made this time. Arya looks at her with uncertain eyes. "Oh truly, you are not at al concentrated this day. Very well, then, if I cannot hold your attention be off with you. It's no use beating a dead horse." The rotund woman gives her a half-hearted glare and tuts lightly. "How am I expected to make you presentable when you are unwilling to learn?"

The question brings a frown to Arya's face. She cannot understand what these women find so very interesting about needles and flowers and dresses. It's all so very stupid. In the extreme. Knowing fully well that the Septa has quite a bit more to say, Arya relaxes in her chair and allows her mind to wonder as Septa Mordane drones on.

If only she were Queen Nymeria, she thinks with a jolt of disappointment. Or at least if she could somehow find her way to Dorne. At least there no one would look at her strangely for carrying a sword and wearing unladylike garments. Arya moves her eyes to Septa Mordane's face, pretending that she is listening to every word. She nods her head along, pleading that she's doing is convincingly. But in her mind she is already a rider of the desert, battling thieves and rogues in the hot sands. Arya holds back a grin on account of the adventures her mind is making up. Perhaps she can convince father to allow her to go.

"Arya," the Septa calls her attention. "Be gone with you, girl." The woman is shaking her head and frowning. Arya gives her an apologetic look that is not quite as remorseful as it should have been, because Septa Mordane is already asking the Seven to come to her aid. That is no good sign.

Taking off from the room as fast as she can possibly run in a dress, Arya speeds to her room. There she is quick about changing out of her abominable dress. It's too white, too thin, too much like something that Sansa would wear. She throws it in a corner and pulls on a pair of breeches and an old shirt.

Thus prepared she finds her way to the inner courtyard where the men are practicing. Father has said that they will be soon sending men to the Wall. Arya tried to pay attention to his reasoning but she is not at all interested, because everyone knows there's nothing there but snow and frostbite.

"Arya!" Bran yells after her. He waves energetically and motions her over. He is no longer ashamed of practicing with her. At first he wouldn't even lift a sword towards her. But now he is trying in earnest to win their skirmishes.

She takes her position and holds out the wooden sword. Between the two of them, Bran has had more training, but Arya knows she is the one with more talent for weaponry in her little finger than her brother has in his entire arm. "Come one then," she challenges like she'd seen men trice her size do.

Bran swings his sword at her and almost catches her in the arm, but Arya is able to dodge in time and thrust towards him. She comes very close to hitting his stomach, but Bran parries at the last possible moment. He twists around and brings his sword down upon her in a wide arc. This gives Arya enough time to raise her own sword and block his attack.

A few of the men have stopped their training and are now watching them. Arya sees one of them smiling and holding a coin out to another. Soon, the hum of conversation breaks out. They are talking about them, she knows. They are making bets. With this knowledge she becomes even more determined.

With a mighty swing she manages to hit her brother's arm. Bran drops the sword with a yelp of pain and Arya brings the tip of hers to his neck. A cheer meets her victory. She smiles, a mean and superior twist of lips, like children are wont to do when they think themselves invincible.

"I won," she declares, raising her chin up in defiance of Bran's hurt look.

Her brother frown, but picks up his sword. "You may have," he allows without much heart behind it. "But I'm still a better climber," the boy taunts.

"You are not," Arya denies. "I'll beat you at that too, stupid."

"No you won't," Bran disagrees. "You're too slow."

Wishing nothing more but to punish him, Arya starts chasing Bran around. She is not even aware of the fact that he's leading them towards the old tower he sometimes climbs before she sees it. But once they stand in front of it she gives him a strange look.

"Prove it. Prove you are better," he says, voice flat.

One small smirk later and both siblings have started climbing, grasping at rocks and trying to hols their balance. Arya is trying her hardest, but Bran is a better climber, truth be told. Old Nan says it's the Flint blood in his veins. Well, Arya has been named for Arya Flint, so she too must have it. Unwilling to give up, she grits her teeth and pushes forward.

They are halfway up when she feels her muscles starting to give way. Her mistake is looking down. She should not have done it. But the moment her eyes land on the ground, she feels herself growing faint. Her hand reaches upward and grabs whatever is there.

And then they are both falling.


	8. viii

A/N:

I don't know who and when, but I was asked about the ages of our beloved characters. So here you go, just in case you were wondering:

Daenerys - 17, almost 18,

Jon and Robb - 16, just shy of 17,

Margaery - 15,

Rhaenys, Rhaegon and Aeron - 14,

Aegon (Dayne), Sansa - 13, nearly 14,

Elenei and Alysanna - 12,

Shireen - 11,

Arya - 10,

Bran - 9,

Rickon - 4.

Keep in mind that this is a medieval setting, before you try to kill me for the many relationships that to the modern mind would seem wrong. Also, in Westeros the 'age of consent' is 16. However, a person may be wedded in infancy, so long as the bedding does not happen until the girl had had her first 'blood'.

Anyone else you are curious about?

* * *

><p>Elenei looks up at the darkening sky and pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She walks barefoot on the green, slightly damp grass and hums to herself. By the looks of it will be raining soon enough, or mayhap it shall even snow. One can never tell. But the girl is not at all worried, knowing fully well that the snow which falls in the morning will have melted down in a few hours to leave behind only greenery.<p>

It is rather strange a climate for her. In the Stormlands, it mostly rains; vicious thunder and lightning accompany the droplets which pour, fat and heavy, from the open sky. But since her mother has chosen to become Lord Stark's wife, and she has not allowed Elenei to remain with her uncle and cousin, she is obliged, of course, to endure this strangeness with decorum proper to a lady such as herself.

A smile crosses her lips at the thought. A lady, truly. Everyone tells her that soon she shall wed and be some lord's dutiful wife. She will have a home and raise a family. Elenei looks at her mother when such talk reaches her ears and shudders involuntarily. Her mother now has a new husband and she carries his child, yet sometimes, in her green, green eyes, something poisonous blooms, something which reminds Elenei of sorrow and ambition, of bitterness mostly.

What if she herself will be as her mother? What if she will have to live with the fear of being cast out by her family – or rather her husband's family? She knows well enough that Uncle Stannis allowed her mother to remain in his home as long as she had only for Elenei herself. Were she not the very image of her father, she does believe that her mother would have had one card less to play.

But all that does not truly matter. There is quite another problem on the horizon. Its name is Tywin Lannister, and its relation to Elenei is that of ambitious grandfather. Recently, a raven came bearing a message for her mother. Elenei is not sure what the letters exchanged between her mother and grandfather contain; she never had the curiosity to look. However, she is very certain that she is in part the subject of this correspondence.

As if to further confirm her suspicions, Cersei had determined that Elenei is to become a cup-bearer in her grandfather's house. "Only for a little while," her mother promises when Elenei dares to protest. "Your grandfather has need of you, child. Surely you would not deny him."

Due to political reasons, that Elenei has not considered very carefully but is still marginally aware of, Tywin Lannister had lost his position as the King's Hand. That left him with no recourse but to make for his home, from where he has not been called to court again

"Why would he need me?" The question glides against the almost overbearing silence. Elenei reaches one of the tall trees. She sits down underneath it and glances up at the foliage as if the answer may be found in the vein of a leaf.

There are only so many reasons she an come up with and neither thrills her in the least. Yet there is likely no escape. Nothing she can think of offers enough protection so that she may attempt it. Elenei sighs. If only there were something.

Just as she is about to spread her limbs out and close her eyes, a sound cuts into the silence. Elenei sits up and looks around the thick tree trunk, blue eyes shining a dull light in the gloomy morning. To her surprise, it is a cart that is coming up the road, pulled along by a thin horse that looked like it needs a good scrubbing and some oats.

There is a gentle heart beating in her chest, so Elenei is not surprised by the fact that a twinge of pain shakes her to the core at the sight of the poor beast. In the cart, however, there is something of more interest. She stands on her tiptoes and leans forward in order to have a batter view.

What the horse is carrying is no other but a body – a corpse which spreads about a distinctly unpleasant smell. At least in this cold weather it has not yet begun to rot as it would in the warm summer. Elenei scrunches her nose at the unpleasantness.

Whoever that man was, he must have believed in the Seven, she considered, looking at the Silent Sisters that accompany the cart. They drawn and gaunt faces do not as much as turn her way. What miserable creatures they are, Elenei thinks as the women walk behind the cart, their skirts drawn a bit up so as to not muddy the hems. Yet miserable as they are, no one would ever dare touch them.

An idea takes root in the girl's breast as she gazes at the small parade with keen eyes. The life of a Silent Sister is difficult and certainly not something she can manage. However, the thought of becoming a Sept is altogether more inviting and it involves less hardships.

It is as these thought make their way through her mind that Elenei recalls her mother's plans to wed her to come lord. That certainly puts her plan in danger. It seems that going to her grandfather's home, the imposing Casterly Rock she has heard so much about, but was never allowed to visit when her mother went, is going to be a welcome sight indeed.

Striving keep within her these sudden wishes, Elenei hides her revelation behind a blessedly beatific smile and decides it is time to return inside the keep and keep company with her mother. Of late, her dear mother has been of an ill-disposition and not at all pleasant to be around. Lord Stark says it is the child that makes her so. Elenei believes him, for the man had had children of his won. He would know better than she what a woman with child might act like.

Mother waits for her with a frown and a snarl at the state of her feet. "Look at you. Are you a peasant to be walking about with brown heels and a muddy dress?" The level of distress her mother displays for such unimportant matters never ceases to amaze Elenei.

"I am sorry, mother," she apologises nonetheless and hurries off to wash herself. "I cannot help if if it rains and there's mud," she grouses unhappily when she is quite alone.

In a few hours Lord Brandon Stark will be back too from his hunt, she considers, wondering if he wolf manage to catch anything tendered than the old doe of last time. Even rabbits would be better at this point, but for some reason, mother claims the child demands deer to feed upon.

Elenei shivers with horror at the thought of the father she has never known, that one which planted her in her mother's womb. It all seems rather bizarre.

* * *

><p>AN: Question for the philosophers: Strive to live just for the sake of living, or fight for a purpose? And if you choose to fight, how much are you permitted as pertaining to the other around you?

Think of it in a medieval frame of mind, dear. Else, you'll be terribly confused by the next chapter.


	9. ix

Silver locks tumble down her back in a soft cascade as one of her ladies-in-waiting arranges the flowers in her hair. Another one busies herself with tying a deep mauve girdle to the Princess' now restored figure. Days of wallowing her in her own misery, accompanied by dark thoughts of the future have rendered to Daenerys' countenance an air of gravity, so very put of place in such young a person.

Biting her lips, Daenerys gazes at the small looking glass the third woman hold before her face. There are faint dark circles under her eyes and the thinness of her face speak more of deep suffering than of handsome bone structure, but even so, she is assured, most fervently, that she is as lovely as ever, than she needn't worry about anything just as long as they are with her.

With a small nod and a tiny smile, the Princess resolves that today is the day when she gives her brother and answer. Rhaegar has been patient with her; more so than others would have been, she is sure. But she also knows that this patience won't hold out forever. Besides, the weight of it has tired her out to a degree she fears to be beyond repair.

A soft knock on the door announces a new arrival. Daenerys calls for whoever it is to enter. She is not much surprised to see 'tis the Queen, her good-sister, who has come. The older woman closes the door behind her softly and orders all other away. She sits down in a chair and Daenerys follows suit. They stare at each other for a few moments and both seem at a loss for word. Yet someone must speak.

"You wished for my counsel," Lyanna says, folding her hand in her lap. A look of uncertainty crosses her features.

"Indeed," Daenerys answers. "My circumstances are not unknown to you who has raised me since my mother's death. Who else could I ask?"

"I wish you'd have come to me before," the other sighs. There is no anger in that gesture, but a sort of pity mingles with remorse. "Think you that I am made of stone? I would have done all in my power to aid you."

"I know," the young Princess offers, looking down at her hands abashedly. "I do truly love him. I do." She gazes at her good-sister once more, her eyes pleading for understanding.

Lyanna Stark has been one of her strongest forming influences in her growing years. Daenerys looks to her as one would to a mother, but she is more of a sister in her behaviour. It is such a pity that she hadn't done as Lyanna would have wished her to. It truly breaks her heart to be faced with suffering on her part.

"I am sorry to have missed it." The Queen sakes her head ruefully and hold one hand out towards the Princess. "And what do you wish to hear from me now?" The motherly fashion in which she poses the question nearly brings tears to Daenerys' eyes. It is so easy to believe in the goodness of the world when Lyanna speaks thus.

Holding herself as straight as she can, Daenerys begins speaking. "I have thought about this very much and I must say my desire to wed Robb Stark has not abated at all. I know 'tis a reason of displeasure to other lords, but I am certain that you shall still understand."

"I understand," Lyanna answers. There is a faint sense of worry about her when she sits up. "If this is a the road you wish to take, then I advise you to be firm in your conviction and keep strong upon these thoughts. Shall I tell His Majesty that you have made up your mind?"

There is no judgement, but there is no encouragement either, Daenerys considers. Still, the Queen seems very much at ease after a few short moments, which restores Daenerys' own strength. "I should think it is time."

From this point onward there is little waiting to be done. The Queen returns shortly, followed by Barristan Selmy. Daenerys clutches Lyanna's hand in her own and together they begin the short trek to the King's solar. If she trembles lightly or her steps falter every now and then, her companions is a patient and gentle guide, who waits for her.

The King, on the other hand, receives her somewhat coldly. Daenerys convinces herself that this is the result of his many current worries and not an instance of him casting judgement. Because, she reminds herself sternly, as Rhaegar sends all the other people gathered there away, this is the same brother who would help her up when she fell down. He is the very same brother who read her countless stories and taught her he better than any master ever could.

But for all that, she finds herself falling lifelessly in a chair. Lyanna steps past her and puts a calming hand on the man's arm, followed shortly by a question. "Shall I leave you, Rhaegar?"

At this Daenerys finds her voice. "Nay, do not leave. Please," she asks of the woman who has turned towards her. Seeming to understand the request for what it is, the Queen nods first to the Princess, then to the King. She moves a bit away, nearer to the entrance and stands by a window, looking outside. By this she means to offer them privacy. Which is just as well.

"Lyanna tells me you have come to a decision," her brother says. He sits down behind his desk and Daenerys realises that in this also she means to be the King. A shiver runs down her spine. "Come, sister. This has gone on long enough. Out with it."

"I wish to wed Robb Stark, Your Majesty," she addresses him with the formality she feels is required. "That is my decision." A hopeful looks blooms on her face as Rhaegar writes something on a piece of paper.

He will answer with his decision soon enough. And she can but hope he is as merciful as she has always known him. The King looks up a moment later. "If that is what you desire, then, you shall wed Robb Stark." The words come out his mouth in a rush, a bit too quiet. There is something like disappointment followed by relief in his gaze. It confuses Daenerys. She signals for her to come closer and hands her a folded piece of paper.

Rhaegar too stands up and comes to her from behind the desk with measured, deliberate steps. Daenerys convinces her body to stop trembling and sighs softly, contently even, when her brother puts his arms around her. "Whatever comes our way, we shall weather it together. You are my sister and will not turn my back on you."

Tears are running down her face now. How strange. Daenerys was sure she had run out of tears. "Thank you." she whispers in his shoulder, the words of gratitude muffles bi his tunic. "Thank you for understanding."

"How could I not?" he asks back just as softly.

Without even looking, Daenerys knows her brother is gazing at his wife.


	10. x

There is a faint scent of smoke in the air and the grass sways gently, dancing to the thrills of a soft breeze that brushes through braches and leaves, disturbing the order previously established. It is not yet one hour past noon and grove is awashed in sunlight, bathed in is glow, but not entire in its warmth. There is something strange about this weather, almost unnerving. The birds still sing and there is no storm in sight but for all that a sense of unease had blanketed the area.

A sneeze breaks the relative silence. It is followed by hearty laughter and a remark that can only lead to familiarity. "Wench, you'll cause an earthquake if you hop from one foot to the other like that. Giantess that you are, you wouldn't even notice the gaping abyss you create until someone fell in it."

The person addressed as wench and giantess takes the jape in with a slight frown. She will never quite understand what prompts Ser Jaime Lannister to these positively unpleasant commentaries. Of course, Brienne knows she is not even remotely pretty, but that doesn't mean she enjoys hearing the slights from the mouth of one she has begun to consider her mentor.

"Is that why you woke me before the dawn broke? To insult me?" she fumes, crossing her arms over her chest. Jaime gives her a blank stare as if he can't quite grasp the reason for her moodiness. Then a smile breaks on his face. Brienne sighs.

"Nay, wench, you're right. I've not called you to regale you with my wit." That produces a snort of disbelief from Brienne. If there is anything Jaime likes, then that is regaling people with his wit. At her show of doubt Jaime adopt a hurt mien. "You wound me, Brienne."

"Serves you right, Ser," she replies, not without an ounce of conviction. There are times when Jaime truly is in need of someone to tell him that he is not the master of Westeros and its inhabitants. "If I am not to hear a concert of drollness, then what am I here for?"

At that he throw her an odd little look that is caught somewhere between fear and hope. Brienne rolls her eyes, thinking this is one of his japes. But she stands there and accepts the sword that he hands her. The steel shines brightly in the sun. Brienne holds it up and admires the craftsmanship. She feels the weight of it in her hand and makes a few slices through the air.

"A good sword," she murmurs, catching another flash of steel as Jaime takes up a sword of his own. Now this has begun to be confusing. If Jaime wanted to train, they could have easily done so in the yard. But he doesn't seem particularly keen on it. She thinks to ask him what the matter is, but something stops her. It's an instinct unknown to her, something she has never felt before.

Instead of posing her question, Breinne assumes her preferred stance and waits for Jaime to position himself accordingly. For a few long moments they remain as they are, looking at one another, one uncertain, the other disgruntles. Jaime opens his mouth, as if to produce speech, but then he closes it just as swiftly. Most of the time, he has no problem with saying whatever is on his mind. This hesitancy has a strange effect over Brienne. She half wonders if someone put something in her mulled wine when she was breaking her fast. The possibility is dismissed swiftly.

"Shall we?" Jaime questions, his hand moving just so, enough to let her know he has grown impatient.

Thankful for the invitation and his seemingly recovery, Brienne lunges forward into a forceful attack. Of course Jaime would have seen it coming. He brings his sword up to parry. Brienne changes course unexpectedly, thinking that she might catch him off guard, but somehow he blocks that hit too. There is something with him on this day, though.

Brienne pulls back and retreats a couple of steps, Jaime follows without hesitation. The woman, having seen that some roots stand above ground, walks backwards some more. Jaime does not look at the ground and he follows confidently.

With a sharp sound, Brienne stages an assault, wondering how well it will work. To her satisfaction, Jaime moves to his left, just as she had anticipated. She once again makes to cut at him, but Jaime evades her, moving even more to his left. This game continues for some time, but then, he suddenly glances at the ground. A grin, much like that of a young boy that has discovered some secret, takes over his face. He gives Brienne a knowing look and charges at her. She blushes furiously.

Seeing no recourse but to recoil from the attack, Brienne does so. But she has lost her advantage for it. Jaime brings down his sword in a quick succession of slashes. Brienne somehow manages to parry each and every one of them. And then she sees an opening. Without a moment's hesitation, she slams into the small chink. The force of her thrust upsets Jaime's balance and from here to victory there is but a small step.

She gives him no time to recollect himself before knocking him to the ground, flat in the dirt, as it were. Her sword comes to rest just beneath his chin, the tip not quite touching skin. A victorious grin transfigures her face. She knows the victory hold little value but for her pride and yet, even so, she cannot stop herself from expressing her joy. The fact that she has managed to win one of their bouts for once is a wonder to her.

Jaime grunts softly, knocking the tip of her sword away. He stands up with slow movements and stares at her as if he has never seen her in his life. Is he that upset about having lost? Brienne bites her lip and looks at the ground, suddenly not so elated. She can feel the flood slowly rising to her face as Jaime's gaze becomes entirely fixed upon her.

"What are you doing, wench?" he demands suddenly. "Look up." This prompts her to gaze at him. Green eyes burn into hers. Jaime is terribly handsome and she cannot quite help it when her heart starts beating faster. Brienne begs the gods to allow the bothersome organ to still.

"I won." That is all she can think of saying.

"More than you ever thought you would," Jaime adds solemnly. "Brienne," he stops short and licks his lips as if at a sudden loss of words. His eyes continue to linger on her helplessly.

He stares and stares until she fells she cannot take anymore. Brienne swallows almost convulsively and gathers her strength. "Whatever you wish to say to me, Ser, you had best get on with it."

The prompting seems to have done its job for Jaime, thought he grimaces slightly as if in pain, opens his mouth again. She waits for the words to come as patiently as she can.

But they are not at all what she would have expected.

"Marry me, wench."


	11. xi

Jeyne comes into the room with quiet steps and a subdued demeanour. Her pretty face has been stained by tears and the marks seem to have been etched into her skin, like two small streams glistening in the weak light. She comes to Sansa's side – not that Sansa takes much notice of it – and places a bowl of soup before her. The nourishment fills the air with an appetising steam, but the other girl is yet too distraught to take note of it. Nymeria however does take notice, despite refusing to move from Arya's side.

"Sansa," Jeyne calls to her, gently, "you have to eat something." The redhead feels her companion trying to move her hand, but she rips out of the weak grasp and scowls. "Oh, come now, Sansa. This is no way to behave."

The sullen maiden turns on Jeyne with a glare and loud words. "What would you know about it? You have no brothers or sisters." She regrets saying the words almost immediately. In truth, Jeyne used to have a little brother. But the boy died shortly after he was born, and Jeyne's mother perished too. It's an all too common fate.

The other girl looks away from Sansa and her lips press together tightly as if to stop any sound from coming out. She sits herself down and makes busy with eating her own food in small gulps and slurps. These are the only sounds that fill the noise. Sansa shifts uncomfortably. She is very hungry. But she can't eat. Every time a morsel makes its way to her lips, she'll remember that Bran can't eat and she'll become angry all over again. The very thought brings tears in her eyes.

"Look at her, sleeping there without a care," she says, pointing to her little sister. Arya slumbers, lots to the world and looking so very innocent. "This isn't fair, Jeyne. It isn't fair. Why did she have to be so stupid?"

Arya can be like that sometimes, reckless and wild, but even worse, completely thoughtless. It's as if she never had enough, despite the great freedom she enjoys. Arya is allowed to train with a sword and take archery lessons, Arya is allowed to ride all day long and play with the filthiest of children, she can un about unchecked and do exactly as she pleases, and it is still not enough. They should have never allowed her to practise with Bran. It is unforgivable that she, older and knowing better, and having been told a thousand and one times to keep herself and her brothers out of trouble, would have initiated this disaster.

"She is just a child," Jeyne murmurs. "It was a terrible mistake, I'm sure. She never meant for Bran to be–" But the words is lost for at that exact moment the door clatters open and Maester Luwin enters the chamber.

His body is slightly bent and his complexion is too pale with exhaustion and sleeplessness. "Lady Sansa," he greets, "and young Jeyne."

"Maester, any news of my brother?" Sansa asks before the ma can even approach Arya's bed. "Has he awaken?" She rubs her hands together and tries her best to remain calm. But the memory of her own mother falling to her knees with a loud mourning sound creeps upon her.

It is as if the gods have no care for them whatsoever. First it is grandfather who falls ill and yet lingers nearly dead in his own chambers. Then Robb starts acting strange. And then Arya and Bran become victims to such a cruel twist of fate as Sansa has yet seen. It is too much to bear. She wobbles slightly but holds herself firmly up by sheer force of will, her very stance a demand for answers.

"Nay. He sleeps yet," the maesters replies. He glances at Arya and steps past Sansa. He lifts the covers and looks at the splinted arm. The bandages have remained pristine, not even a speck of blood blooming on them. "Have you given her honeyed water?"

"Aye, I have," Sansa answers without much feeling behind it. "When will my brother wake up?" Arya will be fine. She always is. It is Bran one had to worry about. When they fell, it was Arya who landed somewhat atop of Bran, deviating only enough to break her arm. It is a clean break, something which wrapping and slings might find solvable. But Bran's injuries are of a different nature.

"I cannot say, child. But he will. Have faith that he will." The old maester left the girls alone in the room, no doubt going to see Lord Rickard. It is already known throughout the keep that these are his final hours. The Old Wolf is dying.

Sansa crashed back in her seat with a small sob. Jeyne puts an arm around her and pulls her closer in a loose hug. "There, there." They remain thus for a few long moments before Sansa can pull herself back together and stagger to her feet.

"I am going to see mother," she says. "You stay here and watch Arya." Jeyne nods her in a slow and solemn manner. And it is enough for Sansa to leave Arya in her care.

She walks down the hall to Brand's bedchamber. Summer lifts his head to look at her. He growls softly and slinks off the bed to hide under it just a moment later. His paws scrape against the floor, though no one pays him much mind. Lady Catelyn rises from her chair slowly and opens her arms to her eldest daughter.

Sansa flies into her mother's arms and sobs again into her shoulder. She cannot tell why exactly she keeps crying. Her tears don't help matters any and she would rather aid in some way. But it is not to be had. So Sansa makes the best of it, which is not really deserving of being called good in any event. She breaks from her mother's embrace a moment later to wipe her tears away. In a way, the whole matter feels drawn-out and much too painful to possibly be real.

"How is you sister?" Catelyn questions, inviting Sansa to have a seat.

"She is still sleeping," Sansa deliver her answer in a flat voice. "I left Jeyne with her." Blue eyes meet an exact replica. "Mother, Lord Mace Tyrell has written. He wants to know when I shall make the journey south." The words come out soft and choked, almost afraid. Sansa doesn't even know what she should do anymore.

"Soon, Sansa. Soon." Catelyn places a hand on her daughter's arm. "All preparations have been made, but surely you can endure a few more days." It feels like a reprove for some reason, but Sansa cannot protest to it.

She can stay a thousand days and more if there is the need for her to do so. But Sansa doesn't speak the words. She clamps her mouth shut and leans back in her seat. Her eyes fall on Bran. He is lying there, weak and pale and gaunt. Her poor brother and sister.

Somehow, though, it all feels more like a beginning than an ending. And Sansa cannot help but wonder if what will follow is not worse – for she has come to learn that merely hoping for the better is not enough.


	12. xii

Rhaenys flusters at the accusation in her father's eyes, but does not comply with his request. Instead she continues to worry her fingers around a small piece of cloth. And her father speaks. "Rhaenys, please, is there no way for you to wed the father of this child?"

"Nay," she answers simply. "And even if I could, I would not." The cutting remark deems not to impress her father. Rhaenys turns to face him, a little bit distraught. "Why should I wed him? The child is mine." In fact, the child needs to be born first for her to make any demands. But, of course, her father does not need to know of it.

The door opens slowly and her step-mother comes in. Rhaenys stares at the woman coldly. But Tyta merely steppes o\deeper into the bedchamber and unburdens herself of the food and drink she has brought. "Are you better?" she asks her step-daughter with a genuinely worried mien.

"Much," Rhaenys assures her. She hols her hand out for the bowl of food she had requested. It is truly better that they know of her condition. It makes it all so much easier. "I will never wed the father of this child," she proclaims when it looks as if Arthur means to start conversing with her once more.

"Why not, Rhaenys?" Tyta questions. She sits at the edge of the bed. "Is there something with him? A problem? Something which did not stop you from conceiving by him, but stops you from wedding him?" Put like that it seems a irresponsible thing to do. But Rhaenys had more in mind than she is willing to show. She gives Tyta a lazy look. "I cannot be expected to read your mind," her step-mother begins again.

"And I have not asked it of you," Rhaenys counters. "I do not wish to wed the man and that should be more than reason enough not to discuss the matter any longer."

"On the contrary," her father cuts in, his stern face carved in stone, "that is all the more reason to speak of it. Rhaenys, we do not mean to force into something you would find distasteful, but think only of the consequences."

Dorne might not blink an eye when maidens suddenly bear children, but when daughters of noble houses give life and then refuse to wed, it can be somewhat of a scandal. Her mother had gone through it. Rhaenys looks at the ground for a few long moments, trying to gather her thoughts in something resembling coherence. There is a good reason for which she cannot wed Jon. That comes in the form of the agreement between House Targaryen and House Tyrell. Of course, she could make a scandal if she so chose, but was it not better to simply repair at court one day with Jon's child in her arms? Would that not be infinitely more satisfying than simply letting the world know?

"I do not mean to wed and that is the last of it," she replies decisively. Whatever else were to happen, at least this she must have.

Tyta in nodding her head as if in understand. Her father looks rather like he might argue. Rhaenys tenses and waits. This is unfair. He would accept such behaviour in her step-mother but not in her. However, before anything else can be said, Tyta has taken her husband by the arm and she leads in out gently.

"Give us a few moments, my lord," Rhaenys can hear her say. "It would perhaps be best to see to Aegon's training for the moment." And then she reappears.

"You are not my mother," Rhaenys claims, giving the woman dubious glances, "you needn't concern yourself with me." The fact that Tyta Frey does is both disconcerting and strange. "Why must you pester me?"

"Pester you, do I?" Tyta repeats, her dark eyes watching her impassively. "I do mean to. I am concerned for you because you are my husband's daughter. Is that such a crime?" Again she sits at the edge of the bed. "You are certain you shan't wed the child's father?"

"Just because you chose to, does not mean that I do too," the young woman replies haughtily. "Dorne is not as closed-off as these other kingdoms. We can understand the simple facts of life."

At this her step-mother laughs. "I chose to wed you father because I love him. With or without the child I bore, he would have still made me his lady wife."

"How can you know that?" Rhaenys questioned. "He was ordered by the King to wed you. Father loved my mother. How could you possibly know that he would still wed you given free choice?" There is something challenging about the girl's looks just now.

It is impossible to think that her mother's place would be so easily usurped by a little nobody, a woman from an insignificant house who had brought nothing to the table of her marriage. Rhaenys continues to glare at Tyta, her manner becoming less and less calm. But she mustn't show her emotions. At least not until she has won. With that in mind, Rhaenys settles back against the pillows and waits to her what answer her step-mother will giver her this time.

"A woman knows," cam the reply. "I could probably explain it in a thousand ways of which none would fit your situation. But if you think the father would choose you over all other women, then I think you should reconsider your decision. If, however, you do not think you are the most important woman for him, then proceed as you will."

Surprised, Rhaenys can but gasp at her step-mother. "You would truly allow for this to go on?" She had been raised in a strict household to Rhaenys' knowledge. That she would so easily and with such calmness come to accept a monstrous decision was more than awe inspiring.

"The choice is yours," Tyta said without hesitation. "You are not a child and I refuse to treat you like one."

After that Rhaenys was left to her own device. She ate from the food that had been brought to her and walked about the room for a few turns, but she could not get out of her mind the conversation that had passed. Perhaps she had been wrong to judge her step-mother so harshly. If she truly loved her father, then that might mean they could be joyful together. Her own mother, the Seven knew, had lacked even the faintest hints on joy before her untimely death. Mayhap all was as it should be.

A knock on the door brought her out of her contemplation.

To her surprise, it is Aegon that opened the door to stride in. He looks at her with wide eyes. "Why did you not tell them who the father is?" His hands curl into fists. "If you won't tell them, then I shall."

"Don't," Rhaenys demands. "Don't speak of it to them. I shall let them know when the time is for such. You wouldn't understand, little brother."

"So you say." His voice held an edge of disbelief which Rhaenys chose to ignore. "Tell them before the child is born, Rhaenys. Or I will tell them after."


	13. xiii

"A gift?" the Prince asks, a curious expression on his face. "Why would the new Master of Coin send us gifts?" Rhaegon is uncomfortable with the whole matter mainly because he knows nothing about the man. It has always been a failing of his according to his brother, Aeron.

"Oh, don't carry on so," Alysanna chides, very much her good-natures self in any circumstance. "I say it is wonderful of the man to have done so.

Rhaegon scowls in what he hopes is Alysanna's direction, but he does not respond. He could, of course, point out that most gifts do not come for free. It is all a matter of what the man will demand in exchange. As it happens, what Illyrio had demanded was a place on the King's council which he had paid with an exorbitant sum if Rhaegon were to believe Jon's words.

But believe he must, for after having gathered his close family in the solar, the King himself appears, followed by the Queen. Rhaegon hears the can thump on the ground gently, accompanied by heavy footsteps, and then the lighter footfalls of his mother.

"You are finally come," Viserys says from somewhere to Rhaegon's left. "I thought you had decided to hatch them on your own?" Daenerys giggles at her brother's jest and Rhaegon can feel her hand touching his back gently.

"You should allow those with greater experience to try first," his aunt proclaims. There is a lightness about her, now that she is to wed the man she loves and her whole aura has been imbued with it.

"Right you are," the King returns. Rhaegon waits for more words, but all her has is Alysanna's hand slipping in his and aunt Daenerys at his back and then the soft sound of something hitting solid surface. "I am sure that you have heard about the gift that has been made to out house by now. Since the number is limited, we thought it best to allow you the choice."

And, of course, because Alysanna is already in possession of a dragon. What she would do with two, Rhaegon does not want to know. There are only so fire-breathing mouths one can feed in the privacy of one's room. And his sister will frequently tell him that one is more than enough for her. Dragons are not pets, just like direwolves are not pets.

The process of it should be fairly simple. Each of them shall come forward and examine the dragon eggs closely. If they should find themselves spellbound by any of the three – indeed, Illyrio Mopatis, has sent three of them – then the egg shall be theirs and it will be their responsibility to hatch it however they see fit. All in all, it is a sound plan.

"But what exactly are we supposed to feel?" his eldest brother questions. Recently he has been rather out of sorts and very much at ill-ease. Rhaegon does wish he knew what went on in Jon's mind. But that shall have to wait, for the many issues of the realm have descended upon them and the very fundament of the house's power is being tested. "Alysanna?" the Prince of Dragonstone prompts.

"It is difficult to explain, Jon," his younger sister offers in reply. Rhaegon can feel her gasp tightening on his hand. "But I suppose it feels like belonging. You belong to the tiny life in there, just as it belongs to you. You are one."

Her explanation is vague at best. Rhaegon has counselled her against telling mother and father about the strange dreams she sometimes experiences, claiming that it would only worry them. For some reason, he is determined that they not know for now what is happening, what sort of bond is forming between Alysanna and her dragon. It's important that they remain unknowing; at least that is what Rhaegon feels.

Their aunt and uncle decline the invitation to go first, pushing Jon forward. "It is only right, Rhaegar," Daenerys says. "It was Alysanna who woke a dragon, not us."

So, as his eldest brother approaches the box, Rhaegon concentrates on the energy that fills the room. It is peculiar at best – a sort of confused force that comes in waves from the centre of the chamber and radiates throughout the premises. It must be the dragon eggs. Their magic is old, ancient even and something has stirred it from its slumber.

But it is not Jon. "I fell nothing," the oldest Prince claims after a few long moments. There is something like regret in his voice, but he does not seem surprised. No comment is offered upon this discovery, but their mother sighs and Rhaegon hears her walking along the floor to where he assumes Jon is. They whisper something Rhaegon cannot catch and it is followed by the Queen asking the King's permission to retire. That permission is easily granted.

Aeron demands that he be allowed to go next and Rhaegon finds himself agreeing. His brother linger a long time on one of them. Rhaegon hears Alysanna gasp but he doesn't dare ask her what she sees. His curiosity is satisfied when his brother speaks. "This one is mine."

"It is so beautiful," his sister whispers. "Green and bronze. I wish you could see it." Again, no comment is offered. This implies a deep trust between them.

Rhaegon himself is to choose at this point. He walks forward with care, guided by gentle Alysanna who insists that she wants a closer look too. The two remaining eggs take shape in his mind's eye slowly. His sister remains silent by his side as Rhaegon lifts his hand and touches the scales of one of them. He feels nothing, not even a hint.

Then, his fingers move to the other side. Much different than the first experience, as soon as his fingertips touch the second egg's hard scales, a rush of emotion shoots through him. So strong is this imbalance that the Prince is stunned for a moment, unable to even move. He feels his knees going weak and just when he is about to topple over, strong hand come to lift him up.

And then he knows no more.

Voices buzz around him, speaking words that he cannot understand. They are too far away for him to understand. Something wet slides against his face and someone slaps his cheeks gently – he cannot feel it very well. It takes him time and a lot of concentration to leave this stupor behind. Yet when he does, breathing is easier, and his mind is all the clearer for it. Now he knows.

"That one," he speaks of the last spherical object he has put his hands upon, "that one belongs to me."

The words are met with a cry of joy from his sister. "I knew it." It must be she who places it in his arms. "I told you, father, did I not?"

Confused but pleased at the same time, Rhaegon cradles the egg in his arms. "What of the last one?"

"Your aunt claimed it," his father's voice reaches his ears. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better." As soon as the words leave his lips, the door creaks open and in a moment arms twine around his lovingly. "Don't ever frighten me like that again," his mother says.


	14. xiv

Viserys is giving her a dry look, rather like he wants to let her know just how he cares for her opinion in the matter of naming the child. "I am its mother," Arianne points out. "I should be able to name the child according to my wishes."

"Certainly you are," her husband agrees, lips pressing in a thin line, which Arianne is not certain how she should take. There is something utterly mystifying about this man, so very unlike anyone she has ever met. And the Dornishwoman does not like it one bit. Viserys refuses to fall for her charm, but in all else he is perfectly adequate.

How very disconcerting. Arianne takes a deep breath. She is more than prepared to fight him on this matter. "So I am. Which means that I must have this privilege." In Dorn is it customary that the one bearing the brunt of labour should have first choice in naming the product of her efforts. And it seems the most natural thing in Arianne's eyes. "Come, you must admit it is so. After all, you yourself said that it was your own mother you decided upon your name."

"True that," Viserys allows, nut as easily as he gives he takes,"but it was my father who named Rhaegar. I was named by mother by virtue of not being the firstborn. I do not mean to take away any of your privileges," his lips curl in a knowing smile here, "yet you must accustom yourself to the rules of this court."

"It is always with these rules about you," she returns unhappily. Arianne knows, indeed, that she cannot be the same carefree girl she was in Dorne. In fact, she is very much aware that this privilege of being Viserys' wife is half-burden. "If it is a son, you shall name him. But if it is a daughter, than I shall name her," she proposes at a long last.

Seeming to consider her words carefully, her husband gives a shallow nod in the end. "If you insist upon it, then so be it."

He is not exactly caring when it comes to her, but he is not indifferent either. Arianne knows he hold no passion within his breast for her, yet she can sometimes see something in his eyes, something which takes her thoughts in the direction of contentment. As difficult as he had found this binding to her, he is slowly coming to accept it. At least before the eyes of the world.

And that is enough for her. Arianne has never held to the belief that marriage ended anything. After all, she is as much a Princess as he is a Prince, therefore, they should be given equal treatment. In which case, she is bound to him only in the measure in which he is bound to her. And that bond can always be severed when convenient.

"Do you think our child may someday have a dragon?" The question is spoken more to fill the silence than anything else. Viserys himself has no dragon egg, nor any dragon. But this re-emergence of the winged beasts may well serve her if her own offspring manage to find some.

"Perhaps, only time can tell." Viserys stands to his feet and walks to the window. He peers outside. "I am less worried for dragon at this point, and more concerned for Jon."

"The Prince?" Arianne questions, her form still at rest on the chair. "Now why would that be? I daresay he shall get over the disappointment of not gaining a dragon of his own soon." There is little use in worrying over such matters. Arianne scrunches her nose. "If you wish to worry, I can suggest other matters."

Apparently seduced by the banter, Viserys turned around with a small smile on his face. "Truly, wife? And what should I worry over?"

The time has come, Arianne realises. She must act now. Or else the chance of it shall perish and she would be left to suffer with the knowledge of it. "The poor state in which our dear Alysanna finds herself, perhaps," she suggests, leaning in slightly and lowering her voice in order to have her husband come closer. "It is a shame truly that she should not be courted."

This is another one of those strange things in King's Landing which Arianne cannot explain. The only daughter of the royal house should have suitors unnumbered, lords from all over the realm competing for her hand. But since she had arrived here, Arianne knows that only two such requests for young Alysann's hand have been launched.

One comes from the head of House Lannister, who ha apparently taken it into his head hat if his daughter couldn't have a king, then his son deserves no less than a princess. And the other comes from farther away, from a house of savages to the best of Arianne's knowledge. She is, of course, referring to House Greyjoy. Balon Greyjoy had petitioned the King for Alysanna's hand to give to his son, Theon. The very insolence. Arianne needs a moment to compose herself.

"Or perhaps His Majesty wishes to do as his forefathers and wed her to one of her brothers," the suggestions slips from between her lips, like a snake slithering through grass.

"You know he does not," comes the reply not a moment later. "Alysanna hand has not been given to anyone, because no one yet deserves it in my brother's eyes."

"If he waits for the deserving knight," she laughs, truly amused by the notions, "then he might as well do away with her, make her a septa." Who has ever heard of such an enormity? "She should, at the very least, be asked who she desires to wed."

With a shake of his head, Viserys disapproves, "Alysanna is too young yet." Of course, he does not even take into account that at her age, his own mother had been a bride. For the moment, Arianne is content not to remind him.

But just as she is about to press for further information about the King's plans, something sharp and cutting guts her. It is a pain the likes of which she has not felt in her entire existence. This is not the babe moving about, kicking, but something worse, something that fills her with dread and panic.

It cannot be. Pycelle was sure she would not be birthing before the new moon turn. "Husband," she croaks, her hand fisting into the material of her skirts.

Viserys seems to understand – perhaps because his recent brush with such events – and in a moment he is next to her. It is he who gathers the courage to lift the material enough to see whether or not blood is leaking.

To Arianne's horror it is. There seems to be something about the Red Keep in these moments which sucks all her power away. Whether it is the gods sending her a message or her own mind playing cruel tricks, Arianne feels a chilling dread bloom within her breast and her whole body starts shaking with it.

"Something is not alright," she cries, catching Viserys by the hand.

"Hush," her husband says, picking her up as one would a child. His calmness calms her for a short time.


	15. Notice

I have said some time ago that I was thinking about giving up writing because of some rather unpleasant circumstances. After considering the matter for some time, while I do not intend to retire permanently, I shall no longer be writing for a long period.

Given that the hiatus may stretch from a few months to a few years and I have some very nice readers, I thought it best to announce such.

If I do return to writing here, this announcement will be replaced by a real chapter.


End file.
